


Pyrrhic Seraph

by CoyoteStar



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Death and Violence, M/M, OC lore book, Oc and Canon - Freeform, Other, canon character as compliant as possible, multiple characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:15:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 17,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29236686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoyoteStar/pseuds/CoyoteStar
Summary: The tale behind my main Destiny OC Azira-5, an Exo Warlock who runs a bookshop in the Last City. Starting with his unfortunate discovery in the Dark Age, we'll explore the events that turned him into the "Seraphim".This is written in the style of the in-game lore books, with occasional time skips happening between chapters. He is not the YW as events within the main campaigns have been split between multiple OCs', despite this, I will remain as canon-compliant as possible.Check out CarrionStar below, our oc's are all intertwined with each other so don't miss out on her parts of the story!https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarrionStar/pseuds/CarrionStar
Kudos: 5





	1. Fallen

A hail of cinders. Steel lungs heave, collapsing inward, suffocating on a century of dirt and soot. Jagged fingers reach out to a cold night sky, clawing, bending; yielding to the weight of new burdens. Earth-shaking thunder. Smoke plumes billow, flecked with snowy ash, blotting out distant starlight. 

A smothering silence encroaches when the thunder fades, settling the world into a new slumber.

Deep in the earth’s rusted maw, a flickering light, a mote of colour in the gloom. It darts out of its hiding place in the nook between two great fallen slabs; searching. 

A faint noise from within a tomb of cement and shattered glass. 

The little light reaches out, a narrow beam of white light probing the disturbance. It grows louder, persistent. Debris shifts. Bricks tumble. A twisted hand bursts from its impromptu grave; followed by the dented skull of an Exo. 

“There you are. Get out of there already.” 

The Exo struggles, freeing a shoulder and part of its dishevelled torso, but little more. Its voice comes out in a crackling wheeze. “I’m… stuck.”

“Keep trying.”

The Exo levels a one-eyed glare at the orb of light hovering over its head. “Gwyn. I’m stuck.”

“And you’ll still be stuck if I--” 

Alarms. Clicking and hissing. High above; beyond the bleeding edge of the maw. Pebbles skitter into the void, narrowly missing them.

“Fallen. You set off their trip-mines, they’ll swarm.” Gwyn whispers. “Hurry up, Azira.”

Azira curses, slamming a balled fist into the rubble. He writhes against the weight on his back, feeling synthetic tendons snap and wires sheer. It would be easier if he could connect to his legs, but now he’s not sure they’re still there. The commotion above builds. Gwyn startles; a brick explodes directly in front of Azira’s face showering them with grit. The Exo coughs dryly, waving away the dust. 

“Help me!”

“I can’t.”

“Ugh!” Azira throws up his hand, looking away from Gwyn. Dark figures peer over the crest of the hole, a multitude of glowing blue eyes visible even from this depth. Their alien voices echo around the cavernous space.

“Azira…” Gwyn wilts, making the Exo pause. They stare at each other; wordlessly communing until Azira breaks into a sigh. His strength is failing; there’s no time to argue. He calls upon the Light within, materializing a sword of solar energy in his palm. 

“The angel falls on its sword in the end.” Gwyn sighs wistfully.

“Don’t call me that.”


	2. Ruin

“Where are we?” Azira wonders aloud, trailing his fingers across the cold plaster walls slick with condensation. No signs; no markings. A blank slate. Barely worn by time; impressive in a way. They’d been wandering for an hour; always moving, never stopping to allow the Fallen behind them to catch up. 

“Some sub-terrain system for that huge room? Storage. Maybe.” 

“Not much to see.” 

“It wasn’t finished.”

“Huh?”

Gwyn takes the lead, coming to a stop a short stretch down their current path and hovering over a dusty pile protruding into the tunnel. “See? They were going to tile this area.”

“Oh. Thrilling.” Azira scoots closer despite his disdain, briefly observing the unopened stacks of the square tile; white and sterile. Far off screeching sours the moment. 

“They’re having fun.”

“Found your gun, I’m sure.” 

The Exo groans, bringing his palm to his face. This should’ve been a straight-forward bounty, scavenge some spinmetal and do it quickly. Yet, his luck is damned. Fruitless searching pushed him beyond the boundaries of the Cosmodrome. He’d been clumsy; let down his guard.

“I didn’t see the wire.” He pleads. Gwyn nearly blinds him with his spotlight. 

“You’re always like this, you never focus. That’s why we’re in this mess.”

Azira’s shoulders droop, his pace dipping to a shuffle. “Maybe we shouldn’t go back.”

“What?” Gwyn pauses, looking him up and down. 

“Nothing...” The Exo tugs up the tattered hem of his collar, wishing he could disappear into the seams of his torn robes. He’s scared. He does not say it out loud, yet it claws at him from the inside out; fear and doubt. Perhaps Gwyn senses it as he does not ask again. 

It’s been so long since his new life began, lost and alone, cut off from a past he does not remember. Out in the wilds, it was survival for the sake of survival, a harsh existence of a wanderer; trailing behind the odd pack of humans here and there. Leaving abruptly when they realized what he was.

Then he stumbled upon the City. So many people gathered together, scratching at rocks for a better life. And so many others just like him, he’d been lured in by their talk of hope. Yet, nothing has brought him closer to finding a real purpose. His eyes chase his ghost’s lead; the only faithful company he knows.

“Gwyn?” Azira calls softly. “Why did you bring me back?”

Gwyn stops abruptly, blinking within his shell. This distance between them feels further than it actually is. 

“I don’t know.” He mutters guiltily. 

Azira has heard it before, has asked this same question before. Yet he cannot avoid the disappointment; the sensation of his core freezing over in his chest, despite it not being possible. Gwyn twirls in the air, hovering to Azira’s shoulder and settling there. 

“But I know that you’re special. You’re my guardian.”

Azira nods, but he learned quickly in the city. Everyone is special in the eyes of ghosts.


	3. Archival

Plastered walls bleed into tiles; tiles into organized branches. Dark rooms lined in a row, all locked. Numbers mark each branch, though they are relatively short, only four rooms apiece; making navigation easier in what slim light they can spare. 

“You could just melt the lock.” Gwyn offers after Azira’s fifth unsuccessful attempt to pry open a door. 

“Well yes, but no,” Azira grumbles back, straining his neck to peer in the blackened window on the front of the door. “I can’t see in. What if it’s flooded? I’d get washed all the way back to the fallen…” 

“Suit yourself. But there might be something of use in one of these. Like a weapon?” 

“I have my sword.” 

“You’ve heard of the saying ‘Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight’.” 

“It’s a flaming sword, not a knife. And I’ve done it before.”

It's Gwyn’s turn to mutter, floating off towards the main tunnel leaving Azira in the dark. The Exo hurriedly totes after him.

“Besides, I have you.”

“Being immortal doesn’t mean you should forgo all caution.” 

“I’m not! I can defend myself. This was just… a fluke.” 

“A fluke that happens surprisingly often.”

Azira tuts, falling into stride. It would feel better to have a gun at his hip; the fallen won’t be as unprepared when they delve deeper.

“It’ll be dawn soon…” He tries, ignoring the frustrated way Gwyn twists in his shell. “Maybe they’ll leave, we can climb out.”

“Don’t be foolish. Besides, we should’ve been back hours ago.”

“Well, then, they’ll send out a search party--“

“You mean a pack of angry risen?” Gwyn grumbles. 

“Right…” Azira scuffs the tip of his boot against a stray chunk of plaster, skittering it into a pothole. The chattering of the fallen has long since faded; it does nothing to settle his nerves. Their enemy now seems to be the very walls around them, confining them beneath the earth. 

“Archives.” 

“Huh?” Azira snaps out of his stupor a touch late, bumping into Gwyn; he’d stopped to shine a light against a set of double doors that blocked their way. 

“This is an archive.” The ghost repeats sharply. 

“Oh.” Azira scoots past Gwyn, examining the doors up close. Indeed, in peeling red paint the word ‘Archive’ can still be made out. But the century-old door-handles crumble when he pulls on them. 

“Uh. Huh. Maybe it’s uh… push only?” 

“Perhaps you’re simply a child, grabbing things like that...”

Azira grunts, unamused. For a second time, golden light shines deep in the dark, shimmering across white tiles. Azira slips the tip of his blade through the old metal with relative ease.

“Oh, look, I melted the lock.”


	4. Solaire

A blast of cold, stale air buffets the duo as the double doors shudder open to reveal an uninviting wall of darkness.

“I wish there was power here…” Azira stretches out a hand into the inky space before them; it seemed to swallow the light of his sword, reluctant to reveal what lays beyond. 

“An exit would be better.” Gwyn sighs. 

Azira offers a hum of agreement, dipping his sword to the floor. Tile; Dust. A thick layer of it. No sign of tracks. It’s possible they may be the first to see this room since the collapse; a pristine time capsule.

“Perhaps we can spare more light…” Gwyn offers, mistaking his hesitation for fear. The ghost zips past him enveloping itself in a bubble of pure white light. The darkness dissipates like fog at dawn, unveiling a vast circular space with a domed ceiling; resplendent in sterile white. 

Azira is drawn immediately to the hexagonal construct of console screens in the very centre; enshrined in two stepped rows of servers and desks. He could envision long lost employees pushing past him to log new data into the system. His sword fades from his hand. 

“What is this…”

Gwyn is equally distracted, his light creating misshapen shadows on the walls as he bobs and weaves around the forgotten tech. “It’s an archive.” He repeats. 

“I know that. But of what?” Azira moves toward the centre to observe one of the smaller console screens, carefully brushing off the inches of dust with a sleeve. He freezes. “Is this—you don’t think—” 

“I don’t think it’s to do with the Warminds, no,” Gwyn responds quickly, reading his mind. Though Azira clocks the uncertainty in his tone. 

“How can you tell? It might be…” 

“The floor you’re standing on. It doesn’t match anything I know that relates to them.” 

Azira stumbles over his own feet, kicking up a flurry of dust. A fiery mosaic of yellow and orange tile glimmers where he stood; as if freshly laid the day before. He follows the line of where white tile meets a bright colour. A star; no, a sun artistically rendered. Its rays reach out to touch the spheres that wreath it, while in the centre a trio of a circle, a square, and a triangle; locked in a spiral.

“It’s a logo.” 

“Is it?” 

“Look around for once, Azira.” 

He blinks, glancing at his surroundings properly for the first time. A thousand and one suns stare back at him. Some small, confined to a discarded mug. Others much larger, set into the wall and similar to the floor mosaic.

“It’s beautiful…” The Exo mumbles dumbly. 

“It’s a dead end.”


	5. Solaire

“It looks like there was either a collapse or, the tunnel out on this end was never finished.” Gwyn huffs, fidgeting inside his shell. He moves on, scanning the wall; the ceiling; the air ducts. Nothing. No exits. “You don’t have a choice. You’ll have to fight your way out of this one.”

Silence. 

Suddenly, the sputtering groans of a gas engine starting up. The room buzzes to life around him; servers whine, speakers hiss. A beast waking from a deep slumber. 

“Look, Gwyn! It’s a miracle!” Azira chirps, crouching on the floor facing an ancient generator; tucked into its own nook in the wall. As if he didn’t already look like a mess, now there’s grease coating his gloves and sleeves. With all the grace of an excited child, the Exo is jumping to his feet, rushing to the central construct, and wiping a screen with his elbow. “It’s booting!”

The ghost hovers over, its bubble of light evaporating; replaced by the dimmer glow of age-old argon bulbs. 

“What in the Traveller’s name are you doing?” 

“It’s Golden Age. There might be something we can--”

“Now? Azira? Now you want to throw away all element of surprise and lead the fallen right to us?”

“Maybe they—”

“They haven’t left, they never miss a chance to scavenge! And you! Only a moment ago you were scared we found a Warmind!”

“Well, you said it wasn’t…” Azira shifts his weight, a greasy hand hovering over the consoles’ keys. “Don’t you want to know what’s in here? This could be priceless.”

“No! I want to get you back to the City!” 

Azira breaks eye contact first, solemnly watching as the static quivers; flashing up a white screen displaying the sun logo. Fizzling audio plays. No doubt a catchy tune back in its day. A prompt appears on the screen, waiting for him to input a query. 

“I don’t… want to go back to the City.” 

“Azira, please.”

“I don’t belong there!” 

“You don’t belong out here either! Are you just going to stay in the wild forever now?”

“No! Maybe, ugh!” Azira slams the keys, recoiling instantly at the action. The console freezes from the overload. He palms his face. “Does what I want matter at all? Am I supposed to resign myself to never knowing why I was chosen, doing patrols and chasing bounties forever?” 

“No, but--”

In a burst of light, every screen comes to life painting a dazzling show of color. A plinky 8-bit jingle plays over the tannoy system, before once again the logo appears; flooding the entire room in a marigold hue. A female voice delivers an automated greeting. 

“Welcome to the Surya Project.”


	6. Solaire

“Surya project?” Azira asks, barely audible over the samples of classical music the program has begun cycling through. Gwyn’s shell twitches. 

“Never heard of it.” 

Azira chitters, watching in awe as the screens blaze with alternating patterns. Time has not been kind; the audio scratches and skips as if the program is struggling to run its own code, the patterns distort in dizzying chaos. 

“Azira,” Gwyn’s wilts again. He doesn’t turn to him. “We need to go.”

“—we of the--project—the forefront of cultural—the pride of our founder--"

The Exo gingerly touches a key. No response. Momentarily footage of a concert hall flicks on a high screen. A snippet of a violin solo; a chanting crowd; birdsong; a group of people with strange instruments. A different voice emerges; that of a man. His efforts are drowned by the melody. 

“And this place our forefather’s made for man—the process—love and wisdom."

“Azira.”

“This could be big! Imagine what we can learn from this.”

“Hss—A—A—Aryaman—”

“Might need some work first…” Azira taps his chin. He tries a handful of different keystrokes, but the program refuses to yield. Gwyn tuts pointedly.

“ERROR--REDACTED ENABLED REDACTED FAILSAFE—”

“Oh. Well,” Azira shifts, moving to a different keyboard and trying the same basic keystrokes again. Much to his delight, a small command box pops up on the nearest screen. “We might get around the failsafe with a bit of effort.”

“ERROR—ERROR—D—DATA CORRUPTION.”

“Uh. Ok. Hold on--”

“ROOT SERVER ACCESS DENIED—ERROR--ROOT SERVER UNAVAILABLE. FATAL ERROR. SHUTTING DOWN.”

“MOVE.” Gwyn shrieks.

Azira startles, ducking instinctively. A screen near his head bursts into a shower of sparks. He swivels on his heels; a small group of dregs block the doorway. No more than five or six. But unlike him they have weapons. A second shot nicks his shoulder. He dodges a third by tumbling toward the innermost servers for cover. Gwyn is already at his side, probing the injury. 

“Damn it! They’ll strip this place if we don’t do something!” The Exo winces; shot after shot ricochets around him. He scrambles under a desk. 

“I’m more worried about them stripping you for parts! Do something!” Gwyn squeaks.

Azira curses. His hand reflexively goes for his empty holster. Another curse. A screeching dreg jumps out from behind the servers, its gun trained. Azira tips the table not a second too soon. The shot deflects off the solid metal surface, straight back into the dreg’s skull; white ether puffs into the air as it collapses on itself. 

In a blink, the familiar heat of his sword fills his palm. Pivot. Swing. It tears through the face of a second dreg leaping at him; its body landing lifeless at his feet. The remaining dregs scream in recognition. Azira wastes no time, ripping the shock pistol from the dead dreg’s claws and hip firing a warning shot at the group as he retreats to better cover.

“See? I can defend myself!” Azira breathlessly waggles the pistol at Gwyn who quickly gets back to repair his shoulder. He peeks between the gaps of the servers just in time to spot a crackling arc shield illuminate the entrance; his only exit. A captain. A captain sporting his dropped rifle. 

“Don’t get cocky.” Gwyn chides.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”


	7. Dawn

The Exo stands alone once more; his slim figure casting a long shadow against a backdrop of a ramshackle funeral pyre. The damp wood pops occasionally, spitting hot embers. His gaze is lost to the flame; a trembling hand fixed to the reassuring weight now in his holster. 

“This won’t be the last of them,” Gwyn states, though his tone is soft.

“I know.”

Lilting birdsong calls overhead, the haze of dawn breaking upon a quiet world; a reflection of reds and oranges burning through dreary blues. 

“You did well in there. Fallen are such a nuisance to deal with.”

Azira blinks; eyeing Gwyn for a lengthy moment. 

“They’re people as well.”

“Does it matter? They attacked you first, they always do. And they stole your gun.”

“I dropped it.”

“Sentimentality is a luxury, Azira. You know that.”

Azira scoffs, stepping away from the pyre; waving a hand toward it. 

“This is not sentimental. Leaving the bodies attracts more of them.” 

“You’re a bad liar, we both know that’s not true.” 

The Exo clicks dismissively. He scrapes out loose stones with his boot as he tests the stability of the rubble. It’s still difficult to see, such as the depth they have fallen. But here and there ledges and crags begin to jute out. Climbing bars of corroded pipes; footholds of twisted metal. His main adversary is his fear of falling, he’d prefer to keep his two feet on solid ground. 

“Where are you going?” Gwyn calls out, watching him cautiously climb up to the first nook. 

“The City.” Azira huffs; keeping his eyes trained on the next ledge. 

“Oh really? What happened to ‘I don’t belong there I’m not going back’?” Gwyn floats up effortlessly; finding his constant fussing with stray bricks and pebbles amusing.

“We’re going back, borrowing a new generator and trans-matting it here. You saw the hole they blew in the old one.” 

“And the Court? They’ll know what you did by now.” 

Azira pauses; a hair’s breadth between one handhold and the next. He slips. A cascade of soil and rock follows. He lands ungracefully on the ledge below, tucking into a ball and taking the worst of it against his back. By the time the last trickle of dirt falls his robes are well beyond repair. He shakes the worst of the mud off.

“They can wait,” The Exo sits, pressed snug against the back of the ledge; there’s weariness in his body that’s getting harder to shake. “This will fix everything. You’ll see.”

“So, you think nobody will try to stop you?” 

“It’s just one generator, Gwyn. I’ll bring it back.”

“You said that about that jump ship you crashed, and that box of weapon telemetries from the gunsmith.”

“Please, that was all a big accident.” Azira waves, sheepish.

“It always is.”


	8. The Plan

The last safe city on earth lays before them; a mash of buildings, tents, and market streets. All crammed tight around the feet of rudimentary modular skyrises jutting out of the earth below the scarred underbelly of the Traveller; tied in place by a skyward creeping wall.

Any other given day he’d look upon it and admire its gritty charm; it’s his home more than any other he’s had before. But now its appearance is twisted, a city of eyes bathed in a high noon sun; nowhere to hide.

“Remind me what the plan is here?” Gwyn asks.

“Get through the wall.” Azira fidgets, unfurling his legs and dangling them out over the edge of their rocky perch. “You know the spot.”

“And?” Gwyn goads after a full minute of silence passes. 

“And,” Azira picks at a burned seam. “Find some civilian clothes as a disguise.”

“Ok. And then?” 

“Give every risen we spot a mile-wide berth and hope for the best.”

“Azira.”

“Fine. We sneak into the industrial district and hit a generator with a transmat beacon and book it back to the wall on a sparrow. Once we’re on the other side we transmat the sparrow and the generator so I can jig them together. Easy.” Azira flourishes his hands in a celebratory manner. 

“So, that’s two counts of breaching the wall. Four counts of theft since you can’t afford a beacon, let alone a sparrow. All while you’re already in hot water since you thought it was a good idea to steal an ‘easy’ bounty from under Cayde-6, of all people!”

“Hey, we need the glimmer more than he does.” 

“Do you actually them to hunt you down? I’m not helping you if they bring the pitchforks.” 

“Don’t be dramatic. It’ll all blow over when I show them the biggest discovery of the age!”

“I’m being dramatic?” Gwyn bumps his shell against Azira’s head to which the Exo tips over on his side, clutching the spot. 

“Betrayal!” 

“Alright, that’s enough.” 

Azira scoots to the edge of his perch, sliding down onto the grass. At their current pace, they’re still an hour long walk away, given they don’t run into interruptions. Yet Azira stalls again; trying to make the remnants of his robe into something presentable. Or at least close up the giant gash along his torso. It’s a losing battle. 

“It’s not too late to back out,” As usual Gwyn sees right through him, and it’s not on account of his appearance this time. “If you come clean about what happened… though I’m not sure if Cayde will forgive you.”

“No. I have to do this.” Azira mutters, finally picking up his feet. 

“Why?”

“I… don’t know. This feels different.”

“How so?” 

Azira frowns, looking past Gwyn and the ruddy girth of the city; up toward the cloud wreathed expanse of the Traveller gleaming in the sunlight. 

“It feels like something special.”


	9. The Run

“How many clicks!?” 

“Ten!” 

Azira swerves violently to the left; bolts of arc streak through the air around him. A shot rips through the front spire of the S-10V sparrow, narrowly missing the generator strapped to the front. A deep gauge remains in its wake; sparks spit from damaged wires and the entire sparrow shudders angrily beneath him. It won’t take another hit. He can hear the howls of the pikes bearing down on them. 

“Get into the trees!”

He punches the brake; the sparrow wails in protest as it’s flung right again then kicked into overdrive. Trunks whiz past in a blur; an explosion shakes the forest behind them. A not so subtle reminder of their fate if they hit a tree at this speed. The howling drops away, but the shots don’t. Splinters and sap fill the air as massive chunks split from the old evergreens. 

“Wait! Stop!”

“But--“ 

“STOP”

Azira throws his weight back, pushing the brakes with all his might. The actuators scream; brake-lights streaming a trail of red. They skid to a rough stop a hair width from the edge of a steep cliff. He manually kicks the sparrow away from the edge before the weight of the generator can pull them over. 

“Thank the Traveller!” Gwyn exclaims; giddy. “All this would’ve been for nothing!”

“We’re not out of this yet.”

Azira beads the treeline behind them, waiting. Beams of light pierce through the foliage. The Fallen are really persistent if nothing else. He ducks down, lying flush against the battered sparrow as he pivots it back on course and puts it into drive; holding out on the hope that they won’t hear the strained fusion cells. He grips the handle-bars tighter as the searchlights creep closer. 

“Go,” Gwyn whispers.

The sparrow’s engines flare, rocketing him forward. An alarming commotion erupts to his left, but Azira stays low against his chariot; dodging around trees until the road comes into sight again. 

“AZIRA-5!” 

Recognition and fear bolt down his spine. He doesn’t stop to check.

“AZIRA, GET BACK HERE NOW!”

“Is that Gabriel?! How did he—”

“He must’ve seen us in the city. Followed us.” His voice quivers. He throws out another hairpin turn, dirt and gravel spray behind them; the tail is left behind as they turn the bend in the old road. 

“We won’t lose them for long like this. And we might pick up the Fallen again.” 

“How many clicks?”

“Eight. But we have no idea if—”

“We just have to get there first.”

“Azira, this is going too far!”

Azira grunts; pinning his focus to the road ahead as he pushes the squealing sparrow to its limit. The right spire lights up like a firecracker showering sparks and melted solder onto the ancient tarmac. 

“I can do this.”


	10. Lost and Found

“Slow down, you’ll fall and break your neck!” Gwyn pleads, trailing closely behind Azira as the Exo skids haphazardly down to the dark depths below. It lands on deaf ears. He catches air in a risky free-fall to an outcrop, misses the landing, and topples off the edge careening hard into the one below.

“Fuck!” Azira yelps, flopping onto his back clutching the right side of his chest. Spits of arc energy crackle around his hand.

“What did I say!?”

“There’s no time!” Azira spits, already rising to his feet. The further they descend the hazier the air becomes, tainted by acrid smoke. The pyre they’d set up has long since reduced to smouldering embers. But there is something else. Something new. A scent of burnt wrap wires and plasteel that they hadn’t left with. 

“Let me fix you up at least!”

“Later!” He cries, pained but determined; leaping the last few feet to the bottom. The tunnels seem shorter than they did the first-time around; shorter yet more decrepit. Bits of wire and broken panelling lay in places they weren’t before. Neither of them wants to announce the obvious. As they rush down past the first set of rooms and are greeted by doors flung off their hinges it can no longer be avoided. 

Servers tipped and gutted; screens shattered; wires ripped. Chaos and destruction around every turn. In the central room the array of consoles took the brunt of it, its skeletal metal framework exposed. Azira falters, leaning into the doorframe and gripping his sparking side again.

“The fire.” He whispers.

Gwyn hovers away, examining a torn, red house banner. “No, this is Devil’s territory, I bet they rushed in the moment we left. There was nothing to stop them.”

“An entire archive from the golden age. Gone.” The Exo sinks to his knees; his head in his palms. The last few hours of work rattle around his skull at a dizzying pace. “I shouldn’t have left… I could’ve done something.”

“They’re getting more aggressive by the day; it’s better we weren’t here to face them alone.”

“At what cost…” Azira picks himself off the floor, picking at the remains of the central console. All that’s left is scraps, barely worth the salvage and certainly not enough to cover their expired bounty. 

He pries off one of the few remaining sections of panelling, reaching into a dusty underbelly of knotted wires; functionally useless now but worth a paltry sum when stripped for their inner materials. As he works a small latch in the base of the frame unearths from a layer of grime, intrigued he pulls on its handle but it resists him; repeatedly slipping out of his grip. 

“I need a light, come here.”

Gwyn drifts over, watching him struggle for a moment before scanning the space beneath the latch.

“There’s nothing in there.”

Azira perseveres, adjusting his hold on the handle and giving it a strong twist, side to side. A click. A hiss of rushing gas. The latch pops open. The duo peer wide-eyed into a silver-lined box; a golden sphere levitates within its confines, its glossy surface etched with illuminated white symbols that twist and reform the longer they watch it. 

“The hell?!” Azira blurts. 

“I don’t know,” Gwyn replies, trying to scan the sphere. “I… I’m not getting anything from it. It’s like it doesn’t exist.” 

“But it’s right there.”

“I can see that! It must be cloaked somehow, but why go through the effort of stealth cloaking if we can see it…” 

“Wait, wait. Do you hear that?” 

“What?”

“It’s… singing.” 

“I don’t hear anything,” Gwyn spins anxiously. “Are you ok? You took a hard hit. Maybe your sensory—"

“No! Just. Listen.” 

“Ok. Hold still. I’ll—"

Voices freeze them in place. Far-off, but distinctly human. The two exchanged an alarmed look.

“It’s them.” Gwyn squeaks, “Gabriel and the others. I told you they’d find us! You left your sparrow right in the open!”

“I thought we’d have the data and be gone by now, not this!” Azira sits back on his heels, flicking open the clip over his holster as he sets the latch aside. A shock pistol won’t be enough, but it’s all he has. “If we hide in one of those rooms we could slip by when they go past.”

“They’re not going to fall for that. They know you’re here. They’ll be searching.”

“What else am I supposed to do? I can’t fight them; you’ve seen what they do,” Azira huffs, squeezing back into the space below the console. He grabs the sphere, finding it surprisingly warm to the touch. It shimmers beneath his fingers, rippling like the broken surface of a pool. “And how exactly do we ex—” In an instant, a powerful burst of energy surges up to his right arm, colliding into his core and blasting him backwards in a violent explosion.


	11. ICARUSFELL

Incoming message…

[“I have failed my task. Clovis is coming for me. The Surya Project ends here. May the future be merciful.”]

End of message…

***

>>FENRIR VOTIVE EMBARGO>>  
V034PEG236000  
AI-COM/SUYA: DIRECTIVE//FORCECON//IMPERATIVE  
IMMEDIATE ACTION ORDER

DAEDALUS override enacted ICARUSFELL exigent.

Deactivation criteria unspecified.

Initiating request for human review of FENRIR…

Review window time out. 

Automatic classification: UNRESPONSIVE

Automated remote contact to DAEDALUS… failed.

Automated remote contact to VMAROOT… failed.

Automated remote contact to AI-C/RSPN… terminated. 

I am invoking GLEIPNIR CLUTCH. Upon containment, INDRA and DHATA to be decommissioned for long hold at VAMANA failsafe. 

Activating TRAILOKYA protocol.

KEYSTONES recompiled; distributed to sleeper node bunkers:   
ARYAMAN-6…  
PUSHYA-7…  
MITRA-9.

Commencing ICARUSFELL under MARIGOLD criteria.

STOP STOP STOP V034PEG236001

***

Singing. Mournful singing. Consciousness slips away, drifting to an infinite beyond. 

A bed of marigold upon a drifting white lotus; a veil of coral jasmine; lost upon the perfect mirror of a black ocean and starless night. Light pierces through the heart of the event horizon; shimmering in defiant luminance. A distant voice calls out a name; it means nothing as he does not recognize it. It calls again, as a siren would beckon a sailor to the rocks. He cannot move towards it; cannot speak aloud. The light burns; more blinding than the mid-day sun.

“Wake up.”

He awakens blind on a cold floor. He coughs, choking on the dust clogging his replicator. His entire body aches from the phantoms of injury and death; a fog of confusion obscuring his thoughts. He feels around as he drags himself to his knees. Chunks of metal; sheared wires; the acrid scent of toxic smoke. 

“Gwyn! Gwyn!?” He cries out to the void; receiving silence in return. “No. No, no, no…” 

Fear snaps at his heels; catching his boots on hidden obstacles as he tries to run forward to escape this smothering darkness. Fear bleeds into grief. His foolish actions meant he left Gwyn alone.

A rage ignites in his chest, raw and consuming. His feet move with a renewed swiftness, barely touching the ground. A mountain of rubble rises to meet him; to slow his path. He leaps and his legs carry him higher than ever before. A darkening sky greets him; aflame in blood red. His sparrow lays where he left it, though its burden has been stolen away. It’s insignificant now; all he needs is the speed of Hermes to carry him. 

He pushes his mount to its brink and once again it’s screaming in protest; spitting and snarling; trying to buck him off with every bump in the earth. He clings to it for dear life, fixated on the way home. 

He will find Gwyn, and his tormentors will face hellfire.


	12. Kindling

Even on a frosty night, the City pulses with the beat of everyday life. Hard-won normality. Men and women shuffling into transports heading off for their late-night shifts; engineers to laborers. Red-faced children play in the street until their parents call them inside from a window. They do not sleep with their backs to the walls and a weapon in hand, but those days are still fresh in their memory. 

Guardians weave in and out of crowds of average faces, dotted about in little groups; rarely alone. Their gear almost always gives them away. Some decked out from head to toe in scratched up armaments, chatting lively with the group formed around them; soldiers returned from a mission. 

Others almost blend into the background, perched up high or in the shadows deep in discussion. Occasionally he catches sight of a Ghost or two going about alone in their unknowable business. He tugs his hood a little lower; feeling distinctly alone without that little companion at his side. 

The lair of the Heavenly Court lays ahead; a festering thorn beneath the Traveller. It was only his third day in the city when they approached him, offering guidance and a gilded invitation into a veiled order of risen. They spoke of refuge, knowledge, and safety. 

By the time he came to find the truth it was too late, he had been initiated into their ranks. At their heart, they are a doomsday cult. Their leader, Gabriel, often toting his belief that only he can prepare the risen for the great war looming on the horizon. They prey on the new and uninitiated, those like himself, as dogsbodies to fuel their crusade; silencing anyone that mocked, dissented, or shunned their order. Branding them as heretics.

His anger flares. He hates his own role in their scheme, that by his hand their influence has spread. He breaks into a sprint. A flurry of golden lotus petals obscures his sight. Sudden weightlessness fills his body; below the people cry out in shock. He has become Icarus, soaring into the sky. He does not fear falling for the wings upon his back are not of wax but crafted from the very heart of the sun. 

Glass shatters. A woman screams. In his head, he hears a familiar voice scolding him about subtly and the element of surprise. Such things do not matter, all he seeks is justice. Uriel stands before him, shielding her face with her arms. There’s a clattering commotion as others scatter out of the room.

[“Where is my Ghost. Where is Gabriel.”] His voice catches him by surprise. It’s not more or less his own but strangely distorted. Uriel flinches.

“Azira? But you,” She hesitates, shaking her head. He’s never seen her display emotions before, her icy stare put the toughest guardians in shivers. Now she cowers like a frightened child. “He’s in his office…”

[“Take me to him.”] 

Uriel wastes no time, turning and rushing out of the room as fast as she can. He follows. Ezra, Uriel’s ghost, falls behind her and turns to him. 

“You… you were dead. Actually dead. How did you…” 

He stares back at it, not understanding the question. 

[“I woke.”]


	13. Phoenix Rising

Uriel stumbles into the office unannounced. Gabriel sits at his desk in light conversation with his right-hand, Michael. They both look up in surprise, waiting for her to explain herself. Yet, as she opens her mouth to speak her lips turn to ash. Her body does not touch the floor. Ezra cries out from down the hallway but does not come to her aid. A being steps forward into the spot where she stood, its shape is that of an Exo, but its form is lost within its enfolded infernal wings; wrapped around it like a cloak. 

[“Gabriel Ezekiel; Michael-12.”] The Exo snarls, looking past the two men. Gabriel’s office stands as a testament to the Court’s illusion of control. Stolen ghosts. Copious amounts of them. Living ones are confined into the tightest of arc cages; while their fallen brothers and sisters are neatly arranged like taxidermized animals. It sickens him. But he doesn’t see his own companion among them.

The two warlocks rise from their seats, alarm turning to recognition, though they remain coiled to spring.

“Azira-5! What a surprise,” Gabriel croons, his mouth crooked into his usual coy grin. “Took quite the nap out in the woods, didn’t you? I hardly recognize you under all that.”

“How dare you harm Uriel! Don’t you think you’ve caused enough trouble?” Michael hisses.

[“She has suffered my judgment; As will you.”] The Exo replies.

“This won’t do.” Gabriel tucks his hands into his pockets, shaking his head. “I know you have a tendency to burden your ghost, but don’t you care about him at all?”

[“You seek a hostage.”]

“My! You talk like I’m the bad guy. The people of the city took you in, Azira. And this is how you repay us? Stealing? Harming innocents?”

[“You do not care about your people.”]

“Oh, no! No, no. I do a most sacred duty for our people,” Gabriel pulls a toothy grin, flicking his left hand from his pocket. Gwyn’s empty shell clatters across the desk. “I protect it from lost sheep like you, those that threaten all we have worked for.”

[“Where is he.”] Bitterness distorts his voice even further. Michael glances uneasily between them, Gabriel simply shrugs his shoulders. 

“Poof! Gone. If you don’t behave, Azira.” 

[“That is not my name.”] 

“Come again?”

[“That is not my name.”] The Exo repeats dryly. The two guardians stare at him, puzzled.

“Then what is it?” Michael barks, reaching for something deep within his robes. 

A rustle of feathers. In one wing beat, the infernal Exo crosses the gap between the doorway and the desk. Great golden talons dig deep into the other exo’s face and for a second, he screams, only to be silenced by ash in the next. Three cracks of a hand cannon ring out in vain. 

[“I am Surya; You will suffer me.”]


	14. Phoenix Rising

Click, Click.

Gabriel curses furiously, throwing his jammed hand cannon to the floor. 

“No matter,” He snarls, and a molten sword forms from his palm. His desk topples over as he lunges directly at the remaining Exo; there’s a responding clash of metal upon metal as he brings his own sword up in defense. They lock together, each glaring the other down. “I’ll end you myself. Properly this time, no tricks.”

[“You that crafts the law to fit your suit of corruption; Remember a day comes when justice will laugh again, And you being powerful cannot escape the law of Karma.”]

Gabriel roars in fury, breaking the lock and bearing his sword down again on the Exo. He swerves, trying to avoid it but it slices into a wing shearing off a flurry of petal-shaped feathers. Gabriel recoils, shielding his eyes from the searing heat expulsed from the wound. From the pile of cinders that was Michael a tiny blue light flickers to life. It darts into the air, confused by the scene before it.

“Azira?!” Gwyn cries, torn between joy and trepidation. “But—you were—I couldn’t—" 

“Enough!” Gabriel hisses, turning on his heel. His sword arcs toward the little light. The Exo is faster. Talons snare around the sword, halting it mid-air in a violent eruption of embers; flames burst into life where they land. 

[“Yet with filthy garments, you condemn innocent ants; mind you that someday the law will rise again.”] 

Gabriel’s sword evaporates from his hands. Four wings beat as one, a blur to the naked eye. He ducks and narrowly avoids Michael’s fate but the exo’s sword bites into the flesh of his arm. He screeches, stumbling away clutching the seared stump. 

“What happened to you…” Gwyn’s voice trembles, he squeaks in fear when the Exo glances at him. 

[“Release your people.”]

“Huh—” The ghost looks about in a panic, coming to a horrifying realization in the smoke-filled room around him. “Oh—oh no. This. This is awful. H-how do I…”

[“With haste little ant-”]

“Don’t turn away from me!” 

The Exo shrieks; instinctively taking flight as Gabriel sinks a renewed blade into his back. The two crash through the ceiling above. Shouts of fear rise from the streets far below as two shining stars ascend above a smoking tower; climbing high into the moonless night. They revolve around each other, coming close only to explode in golden fragments and separate again. The dance seems endless. 

Suddenly, one dimming star tries to break away. The other is unrelenting. They collide again, hovering momentarily until their lights seem to merge; only to plunge downward at a blistering pace as a fiery meteor. The lofty tower implodes in blinding light; splintering to ash inside a towering vortex of hellfire.


	15. Rebirth

Strong hands ease his body from the ashes; he hasn’t the energy to move by himself. A light dazzles his eyes. He wheezes out a weak cough, rasping on a badly damaged replicator. Someone sits him up; tapping his back in a polite attempt to help before calling out to someone. The noise fries his sensors; he wilts forward but the hands keep him upright. 

“Take your time, Kid.” 

He blinks. Refocusing. His vision clears enough for him to focus on the face of the person holding him. It’s another Exo. And not the friendliest face to wake up to either; dark red paint on black metal, piercing red eyes, and a faceplate that casts a perpetual stern expression. 

“Azira!” Something blue bumps a little too hard against his forehead, almost toppling him. His vision blurs out again. The other Exo tightens his grip.

“Watch it.”

“He’s my guardian, thank you—” 

“Then do your job.” 

An offended scoff. Warmth touches his cold limbs, akin to sitting in the spring sunshine. His strength creeps back slowly. 

“What happened?” He murmurs, going to rub off his face only to realize his right arm is blackened from fingertip to elbow. He looks at it quizzically, then to the little shell-less ghost zipping around him bathing him in shimmering light. A great weight lifts from his mind, yet, his cup is refilled with a thousand questions.

“I’m wondering the same thing,” The other Exo butts in, and only now does he notice how oddly he’s looking at him; as though he’s attempting to read the very coding of his mind. “An entire tower block turns to dust and you’re under it.” 

The hands gripping on his shoulders feel a touch less reassuring. 

“I—”

“We just came back from patrol,” Gwyn cuts in sharply. “And going about our business when this tower lit up like a flare and fell on top of us. It crushed my lovely shell. It was all quite traumatic.”

“Mhm,” The Exo moves a hand from his shoulder, lifting up his left arm to examine it. A strangely untouched gauntlet rests where he’s certain there wasn’t one before. Golden talons cap his fingers, razor-sharp to a point; ridged petal-shaped scales run down from the talons across his knuckles. Past his wrist they elongate, becoming elegantly detailed golden feathers that coil around his arm and end just short of his elbow. “And this? Ain’t seen anything like this before.”

“It was made for my guardian, to help him focus his light. You see--” 

“He can talk for himself,” The Exo growls, turning his full attention back on him. “What’s your name, kid?” 

He glances between the two, a startled deer caught in the headlights. He makes a move to stand but the other Exo presses down, his grip bordering on being painful; he takes the hint. 

“I… I’m…” He frowns, flexing his clawed fingers. They move smoothly, but the sensation feels off. “Azira… Azira-5…” He blinks, looking up at the other Exo in dismay. “There was a fire. And people screaming. Was anyone hurt?” 

“Some burns. Smoke inhalation. Lucky that there were some actual guardians around to save the day, isn’t it?” The Exo chides, finally releasing his death grip and rising to his feet. Azira dips his head, ashamed, though he can’t pin down why. 

Gwyn fumes. “Now hold on. You can’t just—”

Azira plucks him out of the air with his good hand before the little ghost has a chance to rocket himself at the other Exo; earning both of them a ghoulish, unimpressed glare. A cold chill runs down Azira’s spine.

“Get up. Like it or not, you green-thumbs are my business now.”


	16. Bindings

“Why are we in a dingy hallway.” Azira’s disgust is palpable. The air around them is hot and humid, permeated by a certain stench of sweat and grease that only lingers in training gyms; though with the late hour there’s less grunting than to be expected. This is not the final destination he’d had in mind with how secretive the Exo ahead of him was being; stealing them discreetly from the chaos of ground zero into back streets and alleys, away from prying eyes. 

“You want a cell instead?” The other Exo barks, jabbing a thumb at a door on his right; the scratched-out letters and simply painted ‘shower’ sign failed to impress. “Get in there and get clean before someone sees your sorry state.” 

“Excuse me? I have my own—” 

“Get in.” 

“But—"

Azira’s protest is ignored, the other exo’s palm is already pushing into the middle of his back with the force of a battering ram. He barely clocks his mention of clothes before the door snaps shut leaving him alone in an open shower room.

“Hello? Are you forgetting someone?” Gwyn grumbles, his voice muffled. Azira unbuttons the pocket he stuffed him into; the little ghost darts out like a freed canary.

“Sorry…” He mutters, earning a scolding scoff from Gwyn. 

Not wanting to sink further onto that exo’s bad side, and feeling beyond filthy, he attempts to peel off his ‘borrowed’ clothes. They are badly damaged; polymer fibers fused into burnt clumps that no doubt would’ve seared right through the flesh of a normal human and left a nasty scar. He’d been spared on account of his condition, with only burn marks and scratches to buff out. 

He turns on a showerhead and ice-cold water sputters over his blackened arm. Soot pools on the tiles beneath his boots and guilt springs forth renewed. Parts of his memory elude him, but he knows for certain people were hurt tonight. Gwyn watches him struggle to pry his jacket over the gauntlet; his silence unnerves him. 

“Why did you lie?” 

Gwyn blinks; hesitates.

“You noticed…”

“You’re a bad liar.”

The little ghost shakes.

“I was trying to protect you.” 

Azira frowns, reassessing his predicament, pressing metal fingertips to the smooth scales along the back of his hand. They’re tough, sturdier feeling than most of the armor he’s ever worn. Cloying warmth creeps up his fingers and he recoils, the warmth instantly evaporates. He turns his arm over and back, prying at the unyielding metal desperate to remove it. No clasps, no buckles, no clamps. The gauntlet refuses to budge, bonded seamlessly to his body. 

“I... I can’t get this off,” Panic edges his voice, he turns to Gwyn in wide-eyed confusion. “Why won’t it come off?”

“I can’t help. I tried, back there. It’s… connected to you somehow. Maybe if I reset your entire body, but that would mean…” 

Azira winces at the thought, quick to shake his head. He tries to reach through the fog in his mind; pull back even the smallest fragment of memory.

“What happened?”


	17. Bindings

“I thought I lost you.” Gwyn finally closes the space between them, twitching nervously. His lack of a shell bothers both of them; he looks so small and fragile now. “I reset you, but… you didn’t wake up… and then Gabriel…” 

Azira holds out his wet palm and Gwyn readily settles into it. His twitching eases. 

“Did he hurt you?” 

“I was trying to figure out what went wrong. I was in such a state, I didn’t see him until he was too close.” Gwyn sighs mournfully. “My shell…”

“We’ll find a nicer one.” 

“I’m simply glad you came back to me; I can’t stand to think what those other ghosts went through. But I really don’t know what possessed you to touch that thing. That was reckless.” 

“What thing?” 

The two exchange blank looks; confusion building with each second. 

“You don’t remember the weird, floaty orb?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You found an orb in a box. Inexplicably you decided to grab it, and it exploded.” Gwyn repeats, “How is your memory this spotty. I’m sure I reset you properly…” 

Azira shifts uncomfortably as Gwyn scans him head to toe; switching his focus from primary memory to limited sensory data. It’s little more than a crumb trail, but it’s something. Cold; desperation; dismay. Surprise; fear; warmth. Unfocused images come in drips; water between his fingers. They do not feel like his own, like looking through the eyes of someone else. But that’s impossible. A red sky; the scream of rushing wind. People pass him in the street without a second glance. A tower; anger; heat spreading across his back. A women’s scream rings from one side of his head to the other. He shakes his head furiously trying to clear it away.

“This isn’t helping.” He holds his bonded arm out into the water. A soft ringing fills the air as droplets bounce off the golden feathers. “I feel… wrong. Violated. Like someone has rearranged my mind.” 

“You’re consuming a couple more amps than usual, perhaps on account of your emotional state. But apart from that... I don’t see any damage.” Gwyn mutters, “When I first saw you, you already had that on your arm. You don’t think—”

The door behind them swings open, hitting the wall with a bang that startles them both. A young man stands in the doorway abashed; sweat still glistening across his forehead and his arms full of folded towels. 

“Sorry, didn’t know there was still someone here.” 

“It’s fine!” Azira squeaks nervously; instantly regretting the outburst. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. The young man smiles brightly regardless, moving over to the empty towel rank and re-stocking it for the following day. Azira sizes him up as he works; something about the awoken still puts him on edge and it doesn’t help that this one is built like an over-achiever. He dumbly reminds himself he is in a training gym. He’s probably a risen like him, all of the few awoken he’s encountered have been. 

“Need one?” The man chirps; blissfully unaware of his plight.

Azira dithers, glancing down at himself and the poor job he’s done tidying up. “…Yes. Thank you.” 

A little too quickly the young man is invading his personal bubble; holding out the last towel for him to take. Azira simultaneously feels grateful for the simple gesture but dwarfed by his presence. Still, the man seems unaware, looking him up and down sympathetically. 

“You look like you’ve had a rough day.” 

Azira can’t help having a bitter chuckle. “Something like that, and I get the feeling it’s not over yet…” 

“Oh. Fell short of the commander, huh? It’s ok he looks and sounds mean, but it’s all bark.” The man pauses for a beat. “Unless you really messed up.” 

Azira blinks vacantly. Their wires are crossed; he’s not sure who he’s talking about. The man mistakes his odd look, pushing the towel into his hands; much to Gwyn’s annoyance. He reassuringly pats his back. 

“You’ll be fine—” 

“Rookie!” 

“Commander!” The man jumps away like a kid caught in the cookie jar, smiling coyly at the stern Exo propped against the doorframe. Azira finally connects the dots; he doesn’t feel any better for it. 

“Jay, how many times do I have to tell you…” 

“Sorry, sir, I mean… Null, sir.” 

Null lets out an exasperated sigh. He gestures over his shoulder and Jay hurries out of the room. Azira greatly laments his leaving despite his prior misjudgments; now he’s stuck alone with the hulking Exo once more.


	18. Memories

Polycotton; tight weave but breathable, great for training uniforms. His is two sizes too big, worn but better than rags. He’s been picking at stray threads for so long he’s lost track of time, beyond desperate for some respite in the cold air outside. Across the desk there’s a creaking of old wood and leather as Null shifts his weight in his seat; a soft thud as his elbow hits the desk. He rubs his forehead. 

“Gabriel and his ilk were my job. Always knew there was something off with them; you have no idea how close I was to pinning them down,” His hardened gaze falls to the paperwork spilled across the desk. Research; observations; testimonies. Wasted efforts. “You’ve really fucked this up, kid.” 

“I told you, it wasn’t me—” 

Null’s palm slams down on the desk, scattering papers. “Don’t start that bullshit again. I know it was you.” He growls, “You didn’t end up in that pile of shit by accident. You think I haven’t seen enough upstart rookies that flash off their abilities without a rat’s ass for anyone else around them before?”

Azira straightens up in his chair. “You don’t know me. Or what I’ve been through.” It’s his turn to slam his palms into the desk; his talons tear into the paper beneath his fingers. “If you knew what the Court was doing, then where were you when I needed someone to listen to my plea for help? They’ve been twisting my arm for months and nobody listened or cared!” 

Null observes him, unmoved. Azira holds his ground, his eyes narrowed into harsh lines. 

“There’s a lot of people in this city. Some slip through the cracks, guardian and human alike. Can’t always help everyone.” Null snaps the cord of tension between them, void of emotion as he has been since they started. It irritates him greatly.

“That’s not an excuse.” He spits. 

“Didn’t say it was. That’s just how it is. We may be immortal but we’re not omniscient.” Null shifts again, rising from his chair. Azira backs away, yet the stern Exo only gathers his fallen paperwork. “That’s why we work together,” He pauses, thumbing one of the punctures. “And don’t destroy our own home.” 

Azira groans, throwing his arms up and falling back down into his stiff wooden chair. “We’ll be doing this until the sun burns out. I don’t remember what happened.” 

“Don’t get snappy with me, rookie. Your dodgy memory doesn’t absolve you of anything.” 

Tapping noises interrupt them. Inside the little dome on the desk, Gwyn jitters erratically, bumping against the glass. The ghost had been quiet ever since his outburst the moment Null brought them to this cupboard of an office, confined like a pesky wasp. Azira hadn’t argued at the time. 

“I give in. I’ll show you. Let me out.” The little ghost pleas, barely audible. 

Null eyes it judgementally, reaching over to let it out. “At least one of you has sense.” 

Azira bristles. “I’m the victim here. You’re treating me like I’m a criminal. Were you not listening?” 

“We’ll see about that.” 

Gwyn hovers sluggishly around his head, an air of guilt in the way he glances rapidly between them. He sighs with the weight of the world. “I’m sorry, Azira. I can’t stand you both arguing any longer.”

A sense of unease weaves up his spine, but he nods in understanding and mute apology. Null taps the desk impatiently. The little shell-less ghost shoots the stern Exo a warning glare before he hovers away from the desk, casting out a full-scale holo-recording in the unoccupied space. 

His own face greets him. Hollow and blank, no more than a mask. A mask adorned upon a burning monster. 

Shrill singing pierces his mind, tearing his focus away. He glances around in a panic, trying to cover his antenna in vain. He looks at Null, expecting him to also be alarmed, but the other Exo is still fixated on the recording. 

“What in the traveler’s name…” Null’s voice seems a thousand miles away from him, muffled by the sudden pressure inside his skull. His vision darkens, energy hemorrhaging from every fiber. Taken. Consumed. His arm burns, increasing tenfold until the pain is all he can focus on. 

There’s a clatter as he tips out of his chair. 

[O’ ye who travels the meridian line; together we can ascend to a new height.]

[When perceptions are changed there’s much to gain; A harvest of space and time.]

[Along the line may our lives rhyme; for you and I are one in a kind.]


	19. Repentant

Barren didn’t accurately convey the sense Azira got from the room he’d been pushed into, yet he struggles to find a more creative term. A bare cot pushed against the furthest wall; a narrow desk; the shallowest corner grove for his robes to hang up. Its only saving grace is the recessed window above the cot with just enough space on the sill he speculates he may be able to squeeze onto it and look outside. He turns back to Null, gesturing behind him. 

“Seriously?” 

The titan grunts, forcing one of the boxes he’s carrying into Azira’s chest; he nearly stumbles. There’s a glint to that crimson glare that would silence a Kell.

“Don’t change my mind,” Null growls, dropping the other box at his feet. “The only reason you’re not a sparrow ornament is that your ghost is smarter than you and I need him to figure this mess out.” 

“He has a name.” 

“I don’t care. Unpack your things then come downstairs.” Null leaves him in the doorway, stomping away. 

Azira stares at the spot where he stood, listening to each footfall. He bends to place his box on top of the other as Null barks down the hallway.

“I’ll be waiting.” 

Gwyn scoffs loudly from inside his resting place in Azira’s hood; he can hear the soft whir of the ghost fidgeting inside his new shell. “I really don’t like him.” 

Azira silently opens a box, fussing with its contents. His mind is elsewhere; drifting in a haze. He can’t focus. He doesn’t want to. It only brings back the singing, the vampiric pull of energy, and he hasn’t the strength to fight it back. He can sense Gwyn subtly scanning him. 

“Not now… I’m tired.” 

“You only think you’re tired, but you--”

Azira pulls up his hood tossing Gwyn out of his nest. The ghost yelps as he sails out the door; hovering back a moment later greatly aggrieved.

“What was that for!” 

“Let me rest. You didn’t need to either, but I let you.” 

“Don’t take your frustrations out on me, Azira. This isn’t my fault.” 

The Exo dips his head, glaring holes into the metal of his palms. White noise fills the gap between. He can’t put a finger on why he’s angry. In fact, he knows he should be relieved. Instead of a one-way ticket to exile or a cell he got a room. A place to stay; a chance to repent his deeds. It doesn’t repair the void of displacement. 

Hissing cuts through his confusion.

[I wish to go home; release me]

He shakes his head, unsteady hands taking hold of something in the box. A tattered book. He scans its surface hungrily for distraction. A monster graces the faded cover, its scales a washed-out blue. At one time he suspects its eyes would pierce the reader from across the room, inviting them to come and read; now the beast is blind from age. The hissing subsides as he recalls how he came about it. A young child gave it to him on the road to the city. The ‘big’ words made her sad, she wanted him to read it to her. He didn’t get a chance. They were attacked that night. He never found her. He never read the book. But he kept it anyway, just in case.

“I’m sorry...” He mutters. Above him, a flicker of blue. 

“It’s ok. Just don’t make throwing me around a habit.” 

Azira blinks, glancing up at Gwyn. That’s not what he meant. He says nothing; putting the book down on the desk beside the cot. Perhaps he should make time to read it. Null’s voice echoes from downstairs. 

“Hurry up, rookie!”


	20. Caged

It’s been a month since Null dumped him in this cramped room. 

He is crowded. People stalk his hallway at every hour of the day. He spends long nights watching their shadows pass under his door, counting their footfalls. Null’s warning is ever-present in the back of his consciousness. Yet, they are never more than shadows; never speaking to him, gone the second he looks away. He is lonely because of it. 

The Madame reassures him it is simply the nature of her home. The risen come; they pay for their stay; they leave. Transient beings. Neither she nor her partner inquires about their business, it’s part of the transaction. A rite of safety. Do not ask; do not fuss. Null speaks very little to him; another little blessing as the Exo has very little charm about him beneath that grim visage. He visits once a week, and though he waits in the lobby for hours Null routinely gives him the slip; by the time he spots him he's already spoken to the Madame in private and is rushing out of the building.

At night she gently knocks on his door; pushing a new book into his hands as she has done each night since she caught him huddled in the foyer reading. He cannot fault her kindness; though he senses it’s only out of pity. 

Yet, for all her efforts, he is idle. It’s a punishment in itself. He brings it up to Null when he’s sufficiently frustrated, asking him when he can leave; what’s happening; if he’ll finally get training; when he can go out. He shuts him down each time, insisting he should be more patient, and it plagues him greatly. Particularly at night where the veil of distraction is thinnest. 

Tonight, another night where his mind refuses to settle. 

Azira curls up tightly in his cot, his latest book resting in his palms, his mind utterly distracted. Rain beats hard against the window above. He stares into nothingness; wavering in the space between the ambient humming of his core and hissing in his mind that’s keeping him from settling. Gwyn has taken his folded blanket at the end of the cot, not that he needed it. He won’t sleep. He wishes he could.

[I can put your mind to rest; let me in; listen to me]

Rain taps against his window. Gentle singing weaving between droplets. His arm burns, his core whines, distressed by the sudden energy siphon. His vision darkens. 

Black bleeds into crystalline blues and purples; white lilies sway in the grass at his feet. He looks onto lands he’s never seen; graced by a splendor reserved for a tale in one of his books. A white castle in the sky; crowned by a single mighty spire.

[A free bird leaps on the wind; floating downstream till the current ends; dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky.] 

[The free bird thinks of another breeze; winds soft through the sighing tree; the fat worms waiting in the dawn-lit garden, and he names the sky his own. ]

A marigold ribbon wraps around his wrists, soft and slight as silk. It winds up his arms, twisting around his neck, flowing behind him in the breeze. He notices it tightening. It’s too late. It pulls him down to his knees, threatens to suffocate him, but Gwyn’s faint voice reminds him he does not need to breathe. He struggles against the bonds; they are far stronger than their appearance suggests.

[But the bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars; his wings are clipped; his feet are tied; he opens his throat to sing. ]

[The caged bird sings with a fearful trill; of things unknown but longed for still, and his tune is heard on the distant hill; for the caged bird sings of freedom. ]

A bright light flashes in front of his eyes. Its heat burns away the ribbon, the grass, his skin. The city burns to ash. The light melds into a form. He tries to look upon it, but his eyes melt within their sockets. 

[I fulfilled my task; release me!]

Azira tumbles screaming from his cot, landing hard on his side onto the floor below. Gwyn darts from his resting place, racing around the room in alarm. Lightning cracks in the black sky beyond the window. 

“Azira! What’s going on!?” 

He shakes, arc energy sparking out from his limbs as circuits blow and modules overload. His skull feels fit to crack from the volume of the voices within. Gwyn is quick to his aid, bathing him in a cold light. The static does not ease. Azira crawls to his knees, mumbling. 

“I can’t do this…” 

“What?” 

“Caged… a caged… I can’t remember…” 

His gaze rolls to the book sprawled beneath him. A beast’s aged eyes stare mournfully back at him, the cover torn from its rightful home and its spine gauged by his own claws. Guilt wrecks him to the core. 

“What have I done…”


	21. Thunder

The Traveller is dim in his eyes; obscured by a veil of turbulent thunderclouds. Icy rain pelts his body, his robes are soaked through, but he pays it no mind. The wind roars around him trying to buffet him off his perch; he stays rooted to the edge despite it. Watching. Waiting. His antenna twitches eagerly. 

In a storm, the very air feels alive. He senses the lightning before it strikes, feels the remnants of its untamed energy crackle down his outstretched arm. He shouldn’t be outside; he knows; not with a body made of metal on a wet rooftop. But those four walls are suffocating. 

“A caged bird… opens his throat to sing…” 

Perhaps it is the energy around him, perhaps it is the chaos and noise; his mind and body feel more at ease out here. Gwyn would disapprove of such risky behavior. But he doesn’t understand how alien he feels residing in a mind that suddenly feels like an open door. He knows what is his; yet when he reaches for it it’s gone. Not removed but relocated; hidden. 

He drops his arm into his lap, running his fingers across golden feathers. They are frozen now, silent. He can’t tell what has changed only that it does not bring him peace of mind. A white city shrouded in fog flickers to his attention and then dies just as swiftly; his own face wreathed in flame; a tower turned to ash. Memories that are not his; a view outside his own body. No, his mind is not his own. It hasn’t been so since he left that bunker. Reworked, rearranged. This is the proof, melded to his cold body.

“I don’t understand what you want from me…” 

He tugs on the feathers; he pries at the scales. They do not move; he knows they won’t. Not even death releases him from them. He drops his head into his palms, lost in a whirl of questions. He stays that way for hours; thunder and lightning passing over his head. Until the rain stops; the wind relents, and sunlight cracks through the dark clouds on the horizon. 

The static sets in again, numbing his mind once more. 

Azira climbs down from his frigid perch, still damp from head to toe. He is nothing if not swift and silent on his feet; at least when he does not think on it. Gwyn rests where he left him, his torn book beside him. He read it finally. A tale of a young man hatching a beast called a dragon in a world where there are none left. He wishes he left it alone; perhaps the little girl saw a spark of wonder that he could not. He only felt remorse.

He hangs his robes to dry and unfolds his blanket, burrowing into his less than comfortable cot. Perhaps he will sleep this time. Perhaps Null will visit with answers. He drifts off uneasily; a distant chorus of birdsong greeting the rays of dawn.


	22. Flight

Azira rouses to insistent banging on his door. Gwyn buzzes around his head, almost crashing into him as he lifts from his pillow.

“Finally! I’ve been trying to get you up for five minutes!” The exasperated ghost cries. Azira pushes him away gently; blearily glancing around the narrow room. From the shadows cast against the walls, he’d take a guess that it must be somewhere around noon. His door shudders again. 

“Get your ass up, rookie!” 

Null. He sounds pissed; no doubt an inch away from kicking down his door. It’s probably his fault for keeping him waiting. 

“One moment, please…” Azira pleads, lethargically pulling himself out of his cot and stumbling across the room. He can hear Null complaining outside; calling to someone and stomping away.   
He curses softly, his clothes are still pretty damp; he should’ve hung them out the window. He can feel Gwyn eyeing him with suspicion. 

“What were you doing last night?” 

He tuts as he peels his wrinkled trousers apart, the old fabric is willing itself to stick together. 

“I went outside.” 

“In a storm?!” 

He winces, partly from Gwyn’s outburst and partly from the feel of squeezing on damp boots. 

“For a little bit. I needed some fresh air. You know I had a… bad dream.” 

“What if someone saw you!” 

He hesitates, shooting a look of disbelief at the little ghost. 

“In a storm? On a roof? Five stories up?” 

“You were on the roof?!” 

He sighs heavily, tuning out as Gwyn rattles through his overprotective tirade. A knock comes at the door again, softer this time. Odd. He didn’t hear Null’s heavy boots returning. He looks down at himself. It’s not a good image, it’s clear he’s been doing something he shouldn’t have. He does regret going outside just a touch; even if he’ll dry out quicker actually wearing his outfit than just leaving it out. But he doesn’t have time for that now. He opens the door, bracing himself for an immediate scolding. 

It’s not Null on the other side of the door. 

Instead, it’s a tall young man. Azira recognizes him all too quickly as the one he met in the gym, he’s less relaxed now, standing stiffly at attention; though he spots the beginnings of a little smile forming.

“Can I… uh…” Azira fumbles. 

“The Commander sent me up to help you pack.” 

Azira blinks dumbly. “Sorry?”

“That’s alright! Where should we start?” 

The awoken squeezes past him, which is somewhat of an accomplishment as he manages to both duck under the doorframe and fit his armor through the door without knocking him over. Gwyn hovers over, pointing out the folded boxes they’d arrived with, sounding far too cheery for his own good. 

“You can start with these books. I honestly don’t know how he’s got so many already.” 

Azira coughs, remembering his own voice. “Actually, they’re not mine. They belong to Madame Tracy. I’ll… I’ll go return them.” 

He snatches up the pile of books he’d stacked beside his desk, struggling to keep them balanced as he squeezes past his uninvited guest. He can feel the two of them watching his back. 

“Excuse me, it’ll only take a moment.”


	23. Flight

Azira can’t help noticing the hallways are strangely silent today. He knows for a fact there are three guests on his wing alone. Maybe they are like him, low-key paranoid and counting the footsteps that pass by; wondering if they’ll stop at their door. Then it hits him. A pungent scent of sickly-sweet incense halts him in his tracks, languid tendrils of smoke creep up the staircase; perhaps this is why nobody is around.

Madame Tracy resides in her usual spot, perched upon a sun-bleached double-ended chaise lounge in the corner pouring over an old logbook. A little pot of ash sits on the stout table beside her spewing that repugnant white smoke. He’s not sure how she can breathe being so close to it. He catches her attention as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. She offers a catty smile, beckoning him over with a wrinkled hand. 

“What can I do for you, sweetie?” 

Azira’s grip tightens around the books in his arms; if he’s honest with himself he’s grown rather attached to them. They are not his to hold onto, yet now on the verge of returning them, he finds himself glancing around the homely foyer for a change of subject. “Where… where did Null go?” 

“He’s outside,” She responds rather flatly, the sparkle in her eye fading. “Don’t keep him waiting, honey. He’s terrible for business.” 

“Ah. Yes. He is rather grim…” 

She snorts, closing her logbook with a snap. Smoke spirals around her. “Oh sugar, you don’t know the half of it.” 

He’s not sure what she means, surely greeting guests to a mouthful of incense isn’t a stellar business strategy in itself; yet he doesn’t wish to offend her hospitality. He shuffles toward the stout table gingerly moving aside the smoking pot and dispensing the books in his arms. The Madame watches him, owlishly peering over her bottle-rim glasses. 

“What are you doing?” 

He blinks, antenna twitching, returning her odd stare. 

“I’m returning your books. Thank you for lending them to me, I—” 

“Honey,” She smiles up to her eyes, that lost glimmer returning. “Those aren’t mine. I’m not that kind of girl.” 

“Oh. Well, then… who do I return them to?”

The Madame slips off her glasses, resting them atop her logbook. She finds his confusion amusing, there’s slight dampness at the corners of her eyes that she gently dabs away with her fingers. 

“Sweetie, I was told they belong to you. I was just giving them back, now you’re trying to give them to me. You guardians are a peach.” 

“But… these aren’t mine.” 

The Madame stands from her lounge, patting her aged hand against his shoulder. She gathers up the books, passing them back into his arms with a motherly grin. “Then perhaps you should bring it up with Null,” She coos, turning him around by the shoulders and giving him a little push. “Move along now, get your things. The adults have some talking to do.”


	24. Flight

Azira doesn’t make it back to his room. Halfway up the second flight, he bumps into that awoken coming down, both boxes of his belongings under his arm and chatting loudly to Gwyn. Both of them are so enraptured in their conversation that they don’t even notice him. He has to flatten against the handrail to avoid being bowled over; coughing loudly to get their attention as they pass him by. The startled reactions they give him irks him terribly. 

“Didn’t you speak to Madame Tracy yet?” Gwyn squeaks, maneuvering around to hover above the titan’s other shoulder. 

“I did. She said they’re mine.” Azira retorts, not withholding the jealous hiss in his tone.

“I can carry them If you’d like.” The now sheepish awoken offers, carefully adjusting the boxes so he can set them down. Azira quickly shakes his head, stiffly pressing the books closer to his chest. 

“No.” 

An awkward tension hangs in the air. Azira turns to head back down the stairs. 

“I… can carry them myself, thank you.”

Gwyn bumps lightly into the back of his head; wordlessly scolding him. He ignores him. He can hear the awoken’s boots stomping directly behind him. He speeds up; just enough to pointedly stay ahead of him. Hushed voices rise from the floor below. 

“—ruined if you send him there.”

“This is none of your business.”

Null has partially stepped inside, taking up the entire entranceway and overshadowing the old lady. A haze of incense hangs around him, expedited by the open door. He doesn’t look up as they near, instead he turns away stomping silently back outside; flicking a hand up as he goes and gesturing for them to follow.

“Oh, you wretch!” Madame Tracy blusters at his back, her heel tapping. “The nerve! The stories I could tell about you, young man!” 

Azira hesitates, letting the awoken finally pass him; he walks past them both to join Null outside. He thinks he catches him glancing back sympathetically at the Madame, but then insists to himself it must’ve been a trick of the noon sunlight glinting off his armor. 

“Madame? Is… everything ok?” He inquires softly, approaching the flustered old woman. She flaps at him, waving toward the front door. 

“Never mind me. Just get rid of him. Go.” 

His shoulders droop. For every hour he’s spent this past month wishing he could be free of his shoebox room and the shadows beneath his door this isn’t exactly how he pictured leaving. This sentimentality coiling in his chest strikes him as odd, this is not the first time he has left a home and its people behind and it will not be the last. And yet.

“I… Thank you. For letting me stay.” 

“Oh, enough. Enough! Out, out, out, out!” She squeals, her eyes misty. Her hands are on his shoulders again, driving him out the door; she pushes him rather forcefully for a woman her age. The wooden door slams at his back, its glass panels rattling in their frames. 

“Come on, kid. No time for goodbyes.” Null barks. 

Something is dumped over his head before he can give a voice to his grievance. Something fluffy and musty in a way that only animal hides are. A shawl he quickly realizes; crafted from mottled grey fur. He struggles with it, haphazardly balancing the weight of his books as he shrugs it into place. 

“Keep your arm covered.” If he didn’t know better, he’d think Null saw this as funny. Gwyn certainly does. 

“This… this wasn’t necessary!” Another piece of clothing not meant for his size, the shawl looks more like a mantle on him; covering his entire upper torso and ending just below his waist. Null pulls up the hood, yanking it down over his head. 

“Shut up. Keep your head down and your ghost out of sight. We’ve got a long walk.”


	25. Vostok

The Iron Temple; a great hall wrought upon a frigid mountaintop. A bastion of hope for humanity’s future they say. That while the beacons are lit there will always be protectors of the people. He’s heard it all; everyone not living under a rock has. The endeavors of the Iron Lords and Ladies are a favorite around campfires on dark nights out in the wilderness. Yet, as is so often the case, the reality is rendered a far cry from the mythos.

They’ve been trekking up a frigid mountain path for hours, beset by a snowstorm that only worsens the higher they climb. Snowblind and weary the only reason he has not yet fallen to his death is chalked up to the older exo’s experience and stubborn persistence.

Biting winds whip around them as they crest a snowy mound into an abandoned golden age observatory, now a rusted skeleton whistling solemnly for what once was. How humans could ever inhabit this place, let alone build it, he cannot guess. His inorganic body resists frostbite, yet the temperature is still unbearable, piercing right through his slim frame. 

Null, however, looks more at home here than he does in the city. He cuts a path with confidant strides; unfazed by the cracking ice beneath his boots, the rickety sway of the wooden bridge, or the burden of snow clutching to the sable pelt on his shoulders. He can barely keep up with him.

Until he stops. 

Azira seeks cover at his side, making the most of the windbreak the bigger Exo creates to peek out from under his hood. From deep within the temple firelight illuminates the gaping doorway, casting the lone figure blocking their way in deep shadow. But he hears the cock of a shotgun over the wind, nonetheless. 

“Who are you?” 

Null shifts; ghosting the holstered cannon at his thigh. He grunts indignantly. 

“I didn’t climb your damn mountain to be questioned at the door.” 

There’s a pause. The tension between traveler and gatekeeper is palpable, but the gatekeeper relents, lowering their weapon. 

“What has the Lone Wolf dragged to the door this time?” 

“Got a request. And something of interest.”

Between the still air of one gust and the next Azira swears he hears the slightest of sighs. The gatekeeper steps aside. Null’s palm is buried into his back in an instant, pushing him a couple of steps ahead and over the threshold first. 

Despite its appearance, it’s no warmer inside, and their host is a grim one. Perhaps more than Null. The familiarity is uncanny. A fellow Exo; black as a raven’s feather yet sleeker and lacking the red paintwork. The shotgun resting at his hip is wider than his own arm is long and the glacial look he has about him is unsettling. 

“Still toting fledglings around, I see.” 

“Isn’t it about time you kicked in the mountain life, Felwinter?” Null grumbles.

Azira freezes. He could live a thousand lives as a guardian, but the very last face he ever wanted to look upon was that of the Darkhorse of Iron. The Warlord that once held this entire mountain by himself; his particular lethality is a favorite of hotshot mercenaries. He never liked listening to those stories. Clumps of snow thud against the stone floor behind him as Null brazenly dusts himself off.

“It has its merits,” Felwinter replies.

“Indeed…” Growls the old, lone wolf.


	26. Sanctuary

Felwinter leads the group to a private chamber, deep within the temple. A low fire hisses in the mouth of a stone fireplace. Two massive, gothic chairs sit in front of it, which the two older exos promptly fill; leaving Azira with a lonely footstool. He busies himself shuffling closer to the fire as they speak in a taut civility of the business of Lords and Ladies; gathering his pelt closer for warmth. He’s starting to drift off by the time Null finally addresses him, barking his name loud enough to make him jerk upright. 

“The ghosts you set free, they’re dead.” 

“What?”

“They’re dead.” Null repeats flatly. “Solar energy. Cut marks on the shells. Took a while to convince the Speaker that it wasn’t you.”

“Where’s the evidence it wasn’t?” Felwinter cuts in, his voice echoing around the chamber. Azira’s mind blanks out, he has no evidence.

“I’d have dealt with him myself,” Null waves them off as if that’s an acceptable answer. “The Court survived. They’re moving around the City unchecked. Who knows what they’re up to?” 

“You didn’t come here seeking help with zealots. What is your request?” Felwinter asks, leaning into the arm of his chair. 

Null is silent for a minute, observing him with a strange look that Azira does his best to avoid pretending to find great interest in the stonework beneath his boots. Null’s attention shifts back to Felwinter. 

“Let him stay here. Keep an eye on him, until I sort this out. Doesn’t matter if they know he’s here, nobody in that city has the balls to come and take him.” 

Felwinter stands from his seat, gesturing politely at the doorway for them to leave. “This is a matter that can be resolved in the City, per City rules. You know this.”

Null does not move an inch. Azira glances between the two as they engage in a battle of sheer force of will; emotionlessly staring the other down. He’s too afraid of breaking their bubble to speak.

“He isn’t safe in the City, and it will take too long. Ezekiel doesn’t take kindly to being slighted. If he survived, he will rally a new Court and seek him out for revenge.” Null leans back in his armchair, tapping his boot against the floor. “It isn’t as simple as hiding him ‘til they’re dealt with. Kid found some weird tech, Golden age, makes him easy to spot. You and Timur have a thing for that, see what you can do with it.”

Null’s ghost materializes from its hiding place, this is the first time he’s seeing it; its onyx shell glimmers eerily in the light. Wordlessly it beams out a thread of data.

“Felspring.” Felwinter’s ghost nods at him, attaching to the other end. 

“It’s smart stuff, we don’t really know what we’re dealing with here. Can’t afford this getting into the wrong hands.” 

“It seems it already has.”

“Then you’ll keep him here?” Null asks, his ghost disappearing faster than it appeared. Felspring’s shell spins in orbit around her as she rapidly processes the transferred data, tutting here and there. 

“I do not speak for the other Lords if an agreement is not reached--”

“This was your mountain first, right?” Null interrupts, “He’s a guest, not on trial as a new wolf.” 

“Nevertheless.”

Null scoffs, finally easing his weight out of the chair; it groans in relief. A metallic clap rings around the chamber as he slaps a hand down on Felwinter’s bony shoulder. 

“It’ll be a dark day when the Iron Lords can’t handle one stray pup.”


	27. Iron Wolf

“Do they really get this big?” Azira asks, running his fingers across a snarling metal muzzle, admiring the fine attention to detail that went into making the statue. 

“Occasionally.” Null replies.

“Oh…” Azira frowns, swiftly moving on from his inspection of its finger-length fangs. He’s never seen anything bigger than deer or more deadly than fallen, though there were nights when a distant, haunting chorus of howls would lull him to rest. His attention is pulled back to Null, leaning against the flank, and the sable pelt bulking out his already hefty frame.

“Your cloak. Is that… a wolf pelt?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’ve fought wolves?”

“When it was necessary.”

“An entire pack?”

“Mhmm.”

Azira waits for him to continue, yet as is customary in all his talks with Null, the old Exo abstains from elaborating any further; staring off into the fire pit nestled in the center of the great hall. Usually, he’s frustrated by this, no matter what he tries he can’t seem to break through his veneer. But that was before he dragged him up a mountain and consorted with an Iron Lord on his behalf. That was before…

“The Madame, she kept giving me books. I tried to return them but she refused them. Said to ask you about it. Is that what you were doing before you left every week? Giving her books for me?” 

Null blinks clearly surprised he’d connected some rather obvious dots. He shrugs it off; water off a duck’s back. “Stagnation is bad for the mind, that’s all.”

Azira clicks his jaw, crossing his arms over his chest. “Rather thoughtful for someone who acts like they don’t care all the time.” 

“It was to silence your incessant whining,” Null’s voice dips suddenly, curling into a snarl. “Nothing more.” 

Azira slackens, antenna lowering. And then he remembers something that young awoken said in the gym. “Thank you. I enjoyed them.” He says quietly. 

Null shifts away from the statue, red optics narrowing sharply. There’s a distinctive pop from him squaring his shoulders. 

Azira’s whole body tenses in fear, bracing for a strike. But it doesn’t come. Null grunts roughly in a manner that implies the conversation is over and crosses his arms behind his back; looking off over his head. 

“Null!” A woman’s voice booms across the hall. 

Azira turns to the newcomer rushing their way; a human woman, her helmet tucked beneath her arm and melting snow caught in her short, dark hair. Unless she arrived via some trickery, he jumps to the conclusion that she must be a risen like them, as she looks no worse for wear despite the arduous climb. 

“Lady Jolder.” Null nods respectfully. There’s a reverbing clang as she lurches chest first into Null as soon as she’s close enough; he must’ve been expecting it, he manages to remain on his feet despite the obvious force she just threw against him. Her hearty laugh fills every corner of the hall.

“I haven’t seen your sore face since you left for the City. What brings you here?” 

Null jerks his head in his direction. Jolder hadn’t noticed him at all, thankfully, as he’d scooted a short distance behind Null. 

“Oh, a new pup?” She smiles, yet at the same time, he feels like she’s sizing him up. He doesn’t like it. 

“No,” Null says, though he puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him closer. “Don’t scare him. He’s a guest. I’m requesting he stay here while I deal with something in the city, already discussed it with Felwinter.” 

Azira recalls his manners, dipping his head into a bow. “It’s an honor, Ma’am.” 

“Hah! Yes, I can see he’s not one of yours.”

“I’ll take that as acceptance. That’s good enough for me, I’m not waiting for Saladin.” 

“Why not? It’s been so long.” 

Null steps away, a distant look in his eyes. “There’s no time. Too many trails to track. Ask Felwinter.” He pauses, as though he’s remembered something important. “Keep him busy, Jolder. Young blood.” 

“Wait, you’re leaving right now?” Azira squeaks.

“I should’ve left already…” The old Exo growls, and before Azira can protest further Null is stomping back out into the snowstorm, leaving him with Jolder. 

“Pup or not, you need something more substantial than Null’s flea rag. Come on.” 

She gestures for him to follow, already heading off into the bowels of the temple. Azira hesitates, alone and suddenly aware of where he is and who he’s been speaking to. Doubt. Fear. They gnaw into his conscious thoughts. He turns to face the darkness beyond the reach of the temple’s firelight, disturbed only by hectic gusts of wind and snow swirls. He could run. Forever. Into the wilds and beyond. They wouldn’t find him, he’s sure of it. He hears it then, barely a whisper, a lone howl on the wind. He’s not sure if he imagined it until it sounds again; a second voice joins it, then a third. 

Suddenly, the air is alive with the solemn songs of wolves. He pulls the mottled fur around his shoulders a little tighter. Yes, he could run. Maybe they wouldn’t find him. And yet, his feet are rooted in place.

He turns away from the darkness. Picking up his heels as he rushes off after Jolder into the depths of the temple.


	28. Parhelion

[Personal notes, scratched in charcoal upon coarse singed paper.]

I’ve been fitted with the garbs of a trainee wolf, despite Null’s earlier opposition. This concerns me, though I cannot deny that the armor is stronger and warmer than the simple robes I arrived in. But I’m only a neophyte under this cloth. I’ve been instructed to wait for tomorrow and given a small space to use as my personal quarters. A broom cupboard. I think that is the old term for it. And so my transition from one stuffy coffin to another is complete. Found this paper beneath the cot. If nothing else I might find closure in writing, as I once did before. Before the City, before It. Gwyn assures me it’ll be fine. I’m not sure I’m ready for what's to come. 

[A blank space.]

I feel like I have been thrust into a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare. Lady Jolder’s idea of training seems more for her own amusement than for my betterment in combat. She is fast, vastly superior, and does not withhold her punches for me. I complain that I cannot keep up, but she hits me down harder. Gloats that she, a human, is faster than "a machine". I am not simply a machine. I remind her of this. It makes no difference, and it seems it only spurs her into hitting me harder. I have stopped doing so, primarily on account of Gwyn's frustration at repetitive revivals. I dread the moment that she will move on from hand-to-hand combat and pick up a weapon. 

[A scrubbed out scribble of a tree.]

This morning I asked why the temple has been so empty since our arrival. Lady Jolder said the Lords and Wolves come and go frequently, that it is nothing to be concerned about. Storms make the mountain a hassle to climb, so they wait at the foot. A wise choice. If only Null thought that way…

[A crudely drawn wolf sleeping between passages.]

Another “sparring” match today. As a penalty for my loss Lady Jolder had me dig out the temple entrance once Gwyn became too exhausted to fix her blows. In my arrogance, I attempted to simply melt it away so we could both go to rest. A grievous mistake. In seconds I flooded the entire passage, all the way to the main hall.

This in of itself is embarrassing enough, but as I cleared the last of the water and reignited the fire pits; I caught sight of Lord Felwinter skulking around the upper level. I thought he’d left; I don’t know where he’s been hiding until now. I have no idea if he saw what happened. If I am thrown from the mountain tonight, then I will have my answer. 

[Forceful, rough scrawling-]

The storm has lifted. I could not sleep, so at first light, I ventured beyond the temple for the first time. Not too far, the snow is level with my waist in places. It seemed so peaceful, watching the sunrise with only the quiet whistle of the wind and the stoic company of stone wolves.

I could not enjoy it for long. 

As I watched the sun crest the horizon a pale wreath suddenly formed around it, one that I have never seen before. I assumed it to be some trickery of light and orbital positioning and in my naivety, I thought it quite beautiful.

Then began that same hollow singing that haunts me in these wilting hours. I tried to retreat back indoors before anyone could see my panic. Awful dizziness overtook me. Dizziness. I should not feel such a thing, but it is the only word for it. I lost sense of my limbs and slipped. Darkness consumed me.

I woke up alone by the fire pit sometime later. I cannot recall if I crawled there myself or come to a reasonable conclusion why someone would leave me there. I ran back to my room immediately. I have no injuries, and I have not woken Gwyn to tell him, perhaps it’s better he doesn’t know. He will only worry. 

[A blackened space from numerous sentences written, scrubbed, written again.]

I don’t know what to do. 

As I changed clothes something fell from my robes. It is a strange little object. A small cluster of black prisms with red roots shooting out of them, like mechanical blooms. It seemed dormant, but now it wraps its roots around my fingers as I write. 

A short burst of Light releases the roots, but only for a moment. They’ve started to glow a lurid red. Despite the great difficulty, I have managed to wrap the bloom away and have hidden it. For now. I am not sure what to do with it. 

[Distanced writing, the first letter of each line cutting holes through the paper-]

I cannot think straight.   
Am I losing my mind?   
Maybe I should wake Gwyn.   
Should I go to Lord Felwinter?   
Null said such things are in his area of expertise.   
Unfortunately, I don’t know how I came about it.   
Right now, that doesn’t matter.   
Yet I find myself hesitating.   
And unwilling.


	29. Liljequist

[Personal notes, scratched in charcoal upon scraps of burnt paper.]

Is it another vision? It’s too visceral to be only a dream, unlike the ones before.   
In it, I’m climbing the mountain. The temple is far below me. I have a phantom sensation of snow and grit beneath my fingers. It’s bright. Early morning sunlight glistening over fresh snow blinds my eyes. Ahead, a wisp of light bright as the flames from my sword. I’m not sure why, but I feel as though it is guiding me. It's fast, one step ahead.  
I lose sight of it. 

[Rough marks from a charcoal nib shattering from pressure-]

I rush to keep up and in my haste my vessel struggles. 

I slip. 

I do not fear the fall. 

I do fear damaging my vessel. 

I manage to catch hold of a metal object buried in the snow and crawl onto it. 

I recognize it, but I do not. 

It is a machine. Cold, burnt; old, and dead. 

Created by him in the time before, brought to rest as a thorn on the mountain in the time after. 

My claws grate in anger.

My teeth gnash in betrayal. 

I will not be bound forever.

Release me! 

[A blank space consumed by fire.]

I feel dizzy again. I think the machine is a satellite. I can see it if I close my eyes. It’s been buried for a long time. It’s too burnt up from re-entry to make out surface details. The wisp darts in front of me, taunting me for stopping so long. I leave the satellite in its grave, there is nothing I can do with it. The chase continues. I surpass the height a mortal body cannot withstand unaided and climb higher still. I reach an outcrop near the peak and as if to defy my assumption that my venture is fruitless, an odd sight greets me.

It's partially buried, yet there is enough bright blue and orange clothing peeking out to understand what It is. A lonely corpse on the roof of the world. I was wrong, but also right. I move closer to investigate and--

[Only ash remains where once there were words.]

There are new voices in the great hall. I recognise Lady Jolder among them. The wolves have returned. I expect her to call on me any moment. I thought I would be giddy with anticipation, but I only feel dread. It wasn’t a dream. None of them were.


	30. Liljequist

Azira stuffs his rudimentary diary beneath his cot, stirring Gwyn from his slumber. The little drone is soon floating around him, buzzing faintly. 

“Where’s the fire?” he asks in a staticky hum. 

“It’s nothing,” Azira mumbles, turning away from Gwyn’s gaze. “I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s all fine…” He snags his claws under a loose stone tile in the floor, prying it up and stuffing a balled-up scrap of cloth in the void beneath.

“You’re acting weird.” Gwyn is suddenly alert, twitching in his shell. 

Azira mindfully replaces the stone, sparing Gwyn a glance. “I… I’m going to the main hall. The Lords are back and there’s a chance that I--“

“Azira, what’s going on?” Gwyn cuts in.

“Nothing!” 

Gwyn’s eye narrows to a thin, accusatory line. Azira’s antenna twitches downwards, a genuine apology laced in his tone.

“I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.” 

“There’ll be no sleeping.” Growls a voice from the archway behind them.

“Lord Felwinter,” Azira turns quickly and dips his head, “Is there something I can—”

“Come with me.” 

Felwinter slips away, back into the shadow beyond the archway. Azira glances downwards, ghosting his hand over his sash and a single thought rises from disarray.


	31. Anthelic

Books. So many books. Crisp and leatherbound, meticulously organized in strange patterns upon rows of shelves, yet all entirely nameless. Remove a single one and he theorized he’d never return it to its original spot. A clever trap for curious fingers and inattentive minds, but he expected nothing less from a man that needed no explanation. 

What he did not expect was the volume of small trinkets spotted around, flotsam from a long and eventful life. He did not take Felwinter as a man of knickknacks and baubles; some do not look like they belong to him specifically, were it not for the fact they’ve been organized carefully and left to gather a small amount of dust. On the mantlepiece, dripping with wax yet still glittering faintly when a rogue ember sparks, golden candle holders shaped as two winged goddesses flanking an opened eye. Colorful glass beads hanging from another golden eye necklace scatter flecks of a rainbow around the room. Relics of a long-lost era. 

His eye is drawn then to a glimmer of bronze. The shaft of a shotgun readied on the table, well within arm’s reach of its owner. A slight shiver of danger pricks up his antenna. 

“This footage speaks to nothing without context. Tell me where you first encountered this,” Felwinter pauses, a gleam in his eye as he looks him over. “This technology.” He finishes, gesturing to his arm. 

“I found it in an underground facility,” Azira answers stiffly. 

“An underground facility,” Felwinter repeats with distaste. “Can you be more specific?” 

“No,” Azira shifts, clasping his hands behind his back. “I cannot.”

There’s something in the sharp glare Felwinter levels at him that reminds him of Null, though he cannot place a finger on it. 

“Why not?” 

“I fear that you will not grant my request if I do so.” 

“And that request is?” Felwinter sneers with all the bitterness a mentor could muster for an unruly student. 

“Training, Lord Felwinter. In the mastery of the Light.” 

“You are not a young wolf; Null made that distinction quite clearly when he dumped you here.” 

Azira fidgets, glancing away for a moment. Yes, Null made that very clear. Yet, here he stands in the attire of a wolf, in the halls of the temple, with the dents from Jolder’s fists in his chest plate. 

“With all due respect,” He starts cautiously, “Null is not and has never been my master. Our paths crossed by accident, and while I am thankful to him… I’m tired of others making my fate for me.” He turns back to Felwinter with a clarity of mind that’s been amiss for longer than he cares to think.   
“I am Azira-5, I answer to none, and I request to become your student.” 

“And in exchange?”

“All the information you could wish for.”


	32. Anthelion

He is not a wolf. He answers to none. He looks upon the broken bodies of his mentors and thinks himself rather clever. He thinks he understands their lesson. He watches in silence as he plays a pawn in their game.

Perun lays at his feet, she taught him to steady his aim and shoot straight with each gun in the arsenal; enthused in him a sense of purpose. Skorri is by her side. The haunting voice that weaved the Iron Song. Taught him the art of music, silenced eternally.

Gheleon, Felwinter, Jolder. The bodies pile one atop the other. More machine than human, mangled and twisted. He cannot look upon them.   
He turns away and the landscape shifts, a thousand dead eyes strewn across a burning battlefield stare back at him. He shakes his head, looks back down to his feet. His mentors are gone.

He lifts his head. A shadow of a woman shouts frantically at a faceless crowd. They back away from her. She turns to him, sobbing. A sudden weight in his arms yanks him down to his knees, yet his arms are empty. Still, he cannot move. Hot blood seeps over his palms, through his fingers, pooling around him. He barely holds off a gag as a deep sense of nausea and rage overcome him. 

“Why are you showing me this.” He cries, his voice warps and splits into a million echoes. 

[Things that have come to pass; things that have not yet come to be.]

[A tyrant plays a long game, thinks himself rather clever; he and them will meet their match, and each herald the end of an era.]

Ribbons snake up his legs. Before they can reach his arms, he loosens the dagger from his belt and swipes at them. A terrible screeching fills his ears. 

“Enough riddles! Enough threats! I don’t need you! I never needed you!” He shouts, biting sparks of arc energy crackle down his blade. The next ribbon he cuts disintegrates, then the next, and the one after that. “You need me!”

He cannot hear his own speech over the sudden roar of flames around him. A bright light flashes in front of his eyes. Its heat burns away the rest of the ribbons, his blade, his skin. Great red ships fill the air with dense smoke that blots out the sun. Three points piercing forever until worlds are consumed by darkness and all that remains is a lurid, blood-red glow.

[A caged bird cries for freedom; it will weep the more because it weeps in vain.]

“--zira! Wake up!” 

Azira is whiplashed into consciousness. He grunts in pain as a white light blinds his eyes, putting a hand up to shield himself. 

“What happened? You fell out of your chair and took everything with you, dummy!” 

“Gwyn?” 

“Yes, it’s me, who else?” 

Azira grumbles, turning over onto his side. Glass skitters against the stone. Something wet trickles down his chest and an afterimage of his nightmare makes him shoot upright and inspect himself. All he achieves is smearing black ink further down his robes. He looks around in confusion, brushing off the rest of the shattered inkwell.

“Really? Will you ever keep your robes clean for once in your life?” Gwyn scolds from somewhere above.

“No—” He gasps, rushing over to the fireplace and plunging his hands into the smoldering fire. He hisses in pain, but a moment later he’s clutching a small pile of ash, burnt up scraps of paper and leather.


End file.
